That is his reality.
That's not a real name. And that's not a real thing to be. It can't be real, right? That's what I told my eighth-grade girlfriend I wanted to be when I grew up, and she laughed me straight out of the food court. And yet, not only is a Lamborghini test-driving motherfucker named Max Venturi a real person -- he looks exactly like you'd expect. Reality didn't get ironic on Max Venturi. It didn't make him fat, or bald, or covered in hideous moles. He looks like a model in a '60s ad for cigarettes. His father was a race car driver in the '70s, so he's a legacy badass, and now Max Venturi (you have to say his entire name every time; it's like a basic law of reality) test drives prototypes of the sexiest, most ludicrously unsafe cars ever made.
Sure, Lamborghinis look like Transformer pornography and retail for the cost of a person's life -- a good person, too, not some shitty Internet comedian or something -- but they burst into flames if you so much as pronounce "espresso" wrong. Max Venturi laughs in the face of danger and then bangs danger's wife, and danger isn't even all that mad about it afterward, because Max Venturi was on her list of exceptions.